His thumb grazes my cheek. “You look fucking exhausted.” “I napped.” “You don’t fucking nap,” he says. “I shut my eyes this afternoon. What do you call that?” “Shutting your fucking eyes,” he deadpans. A smile breaks through my face. I laugh, and then I lean forward and rest my cheek against his chest. I close my eyes, and his body stiffens again. He’s warm. I listen to the faint sound of his heart for a second, and I swear it speeds. But maybe that’s just me hoping that I have some sort of effect on Ryke Meadows.
